


Ghosts

by Bullfinch



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Fight Scenes, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3713380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a disastrous battle in the tunnels below Darktown, guilt threatens to drown Fenris, and he’s inclined to give himself to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between acts 2 and 3. It has no tags because any tag is a spoiler. Sorry!

Hawke exhales, pushing himself to his feet. “Safe. Let’s keep moving.”

They creep forward through the tunnel, a little flicker of flame from Anders’s staff illuminating their way, aided by weak ambient light from the impending dawn seeping down through high, distant grates. Fenris watches the disarmed trap as he passes, the dartgun barrel staring him down in the semi-darkness like a baleful black eye. He keeps a hand on his weapon. There’s been no resistance so far—unsurprising; with the malicious volume of traps, a fight here would be just as dangerous for the opposition as it would be for their targets. Still, Fenris’s fingers hook gently over his sword hilt. Nerves jitter through him like the jar down his arms when his blade strikes an unyielding plate of armor, except this time it doesn’t abate, just shudders and shudders, threatening to shake him apart.

He has a bad feeling.

_Anonymous tip._  That’s what Aveline told them. Eminently suspicious, which was why she brought it to Hawke instead of sending a squad of guards to deal with it.  _Slavers meeting with an important client at dawn under Darktown._ Fenris glances to his right, catching Aveline’s eye. She gives him a firm nod.

It’s almost certainly a trap. Aveline said it aloud, though it was obvious to all of them. But she was unwilling to let it go, on the minute chance it was a real tip. Hawke shrugged and suggested they walk right into it and then beat it anyway. Fenris flattened his hands against the beer-stained table and forced himself to calm. If there’s one thing Hawke’s good at, it’s traps.

“How do they see anything down here?” Anders mutters behind him.

Fenris has moved past the state where the mage’s very presence used to chafe  (perhaps necessary—Hawke drags the man everywhere). He still doesn’t like Anders, but the point is valid enough. The predawn light and the flicker from Anders’s staff are barely enough to make out shapes in the darkness. With the nervousness, Fenris’s tattoos have started to glow, too; the faint burning of his skin is a price he’s willing to pay for being able to see just a little better.

The ragged gap of another lightless side passage slips by on his left. He avoids it, fixing his gaze forward. They’ve started to remind him of his journey through the mountains in the early days of his freedom, when Danarius was still hard on his tail. He was desperate to press eastward and reach Antiva, but, crossing the disordered juts and ridges of rock, he nearly plunged more than once into chasms that appeared out of nowhere, blooms of black opening beneath him as if to welcome him in. He feels now that these unknown fissures in the tunnel walls would be glad to cover him over and consume him once and for all.

The grip on his sword hilt is no longer as gentle. His fingers grasp so tight his knuckles are beginning to ache.

Hawke stops ahead of him.

Fenris draws, unable to restrain the impulse any longer. The weight of the blade is a comfort, as always, but the sudden lightness on his back gives him an unwelcome sense of being exposed.

“Good thought,” Hawke mutters, twin daggers appearing in his hands. He heaves a sigh. “Maker, I wish I were back in bed right about now.”

Fenris squints into the murky room ahead of them. Can’t see a damn thing. “Are they here?”

“Couldn’t tell you, to be honest.” He flashes an apologetic grin over his shoulder. “Let’s assume yes, shall we?”

Hawke’s utter calm in the face of imminent peril never ceases to amaze Fenris. (Sometimes in the negative direction. The man seems to have trouble taking things seriously.) Aveline steps up. “Traps?”

Hawke shakes his head.

Hefting her shield, Aveline strides forward. Fenris doesn’t have so much of a problem with her variety of calm. She has a fifteen-pound sheet of metal to put between her and incoming blows, not to mention the armor. Hawke has a couple of thin daggers and his reflexes.

And Fenris has the lyrium.

The dark saturates the entire room, but it can’t hide the twang of bowstrings. Fenris jerks, but they’re not directed at him. A barrage of arrows strikes Aveline from all sides. There’s a series of metallic  _clangs._  Arrows clatter to the ground around her feet.

She charges.

Fenris remains frozen for a moment, then mobilizes his reluctant muscles with a growl, pushing himself forward. As he advances he begins to see them, hunched shapes lining the walls, scuttling out from behind barrels or crates. Aveline’s already engaged a half-dozen of them. A second pack descends on Fenris. He brings his blade to bear and swings.

A bloom of flame from his right (that would be Anders, contributing, finally) illuminates his opponents. They, like Hawke, favor daggers and low, crouched stances. That’s fine—with weapons like those, his sword will break their blocks without even losing momentum. So now he just has to harry them until they make a mistake. More flame, raining down around him. Fenris grimaces. The mage hasn’t hit him yet, but those blossoms of fire still make him nervous. From the far wall, a chorus of screams.

A sharp pain in his thigh, and he stumbles back, swings his sword low to cover the motion. He’s been tagged. The leg still works, and he’s not worried about it, not yet. One enemy slides forward, alone, to duck inside his guard. Do they think he’s an amateur? No time to bring the blade round, but he leads with the pommel instead, strikes the man in the temple and watches him crumple to the ground. One less. A flash of firelight shows him the man’s face, slack, skin split over his temple where the pommel hit.

Fenris sees his opponents in bits and pieces, Anders’s flames illuminating a limb or a glinting blade, and Fenris inferring from the shadows what they’re going to do next. It’s not easy, especially because they seem to keep on coming no matter how many he kills (he imagines them pouring from those black-hole passages like termites from a rotten wall). It’s not long before he finds himself surrounded—a bad position—and wishes Hawke would show up to pick them apart in his quick and deadly way, but he’s probably covering the archers right now, from the dearth of arrows. Fine. Fenris supposes he’ll have to take care of himself. Better him than Hawke, he reflects, as he twists away from a dagger-edge only to feel another one tear open the back of his shoulder. The lyrium flares, charging through him, the familiar burn blurring away the wound pain and compensating for the new weakness in his injured arm.

Aveline. Aveline’s their rock, and he spots her planted in the center of the room, inside a cluster of foes. He inches closer, taking further injuries for his efforts (nothing sharp this time, just a heel to his knee, an elbow to his bad shoulder). But at last Fenris reaches her, and their two deadly halos collapse into an ellipsoid ring of shadows. The flames come less often now, and Fenris scans the line of men and women, desperately seeking details he knows he won’t be able to see. Even the vital glow of his lyrium shows him little, the shadows staying just outside its white-blue light.

“Fenris!” Aveline calls over her shoulder. “How are you doing?”

He tests his knee. That kick was well-placed. “I’ve been better. You?”

“To be blunt, badly.” A pair of metallic  _clangs_ , daggers glancing off her shield. “Anders isn’t doing so well, either. He’s been keeping them off, but it won’t last. We need to pull back. Especially because we may have to fight our way out.”

Fenris parries and offers a retaliation, but the woman is too quick and dances away. This was a bad idea from the start. “Agreed.”

“Good. Go with Anders, I’ll hold them here as long as I can.”

“Be careful, Aveline.”

Then he draws on the lyrium’s power, forcing it out of him in a wild rush of energy—burning, skin burning, as always—but it’s enough to push them back. Enough to give him a little space. He hacks one down as he goes.

Some things are on fire now. A few crates, bodies. Fenris can see a little better, though he chokes on the thick, char-scented smoke. Anders is backed up into the corridor they came out of. Shadows encroach on him, and he captures them in a savage spray of ice; Fenris does the rest, shining chunks of frozen flesh scattering over the dirt. “We’re pulling back!” he barks.

Anders nods, heaving in breath, and flees down the corridor at a hobbling run.

Pursuers approaching. That’s Fenris’s job. He spins, lunges, surprising both of them with his ferocity. They reel, and Fenris pushes, swings joyously, feels the satisfying catch of leather armor and the flesh beneath on the edge of his blade—

Someone shouts his name. Not Aveline. Hawke.

He scans, parrying, falling to one knee as his bad leg gives. Damn. He’d hoped it would hold him longer. But he throws his opponent off, struggling to his feet again with an upward stab—

Another shadow, off to his left, collapsing to the ground. Beyond, a pair of archers. A burning corpse illuminates two arrows sticking out of the man’s chest, and his face—

_“Hawke!”_  Fenris clears his blade with a messy yank, spilling rather more viscera than was necessary, but there’s no time to be clean about it. No time. He runs over, Aveline’s surprised “What?” hardly reaching him through the sounds of battle and the snap of flames—

Fenris kneels. Hawke’s rolling to all fours, gasping. “Andraste’s—ass—“

The arrows are both sunk deep in his chest, red blood on the shafts shining black in the lyrium light. There’s another arrow broken on the ground, hacked down, perhaps by a dagger strike.

Fenris is frozen for a moment, disbelief wrapping him up like a slavers’ net. But the sound of metal striking metal jolts him awake again.

Aveline is there, shield up, crouching next to them. “Go, Fenris, Anders will need you! I’ll take care of Hawke!”

Hawke’s face twisted in pain, hands groping weakly at the arrows dug deep into his chest. Aveline shouts something else at Fenris and shoves him; unsteady, unsure, he takes up his fallen blade and drops back into the smooth reflex of his battle technique. His opponents aren’t expecting it, the fluid slashes exploding out of this stumbling figure, and they pay with their lives.

He makes a path, retreats back into the entrance. Shadows close around Aveline and Hawke. From further down the corridor there’s a strangled cry and an explosion. Anders. Damn. Aveline is right, the mage needs him.

Hawke is the only one he trusts absolutely, but Aveline is close, and he knows the protective instinct she has for Hawke. So Fenris decides to trust her here. Anyway, if Anders falls, they may not be able to find a healer for Hawke in time. ( _In time?_  Fenris forces the thought from his head. Hawke won’t die. Can’t die.)

He starts to sprint down the corridor and nearly trips over his own feet as his weak leg fails him. After that he adjusts to a more sustainable pace.

The battle isn’t far. Fenris comes around a corner and ends up right behind two crossbowmen, their leather-clad backs appearing suddenly in his blue glow like phantoms. He kills them both and looks down the tunnel, clearing his blade with a forceful jerk. A desperate yell and a burst of flame. In the bloom of light he counts three fighters and one more falling. Anders is pinned back against a wall.

Fenris doesn’t announce his presence yet, just charges ahead. It works; they’re too focused on taking down the mage to notice the slight elf dashing toward them. Fenris has time enough to plant his feet, to send the lyrium energy charging down his arms, and unleash a massive blow that cleaves through them all.

Something darts out at him, and he blocks it, blade ringing. A staff. Fenris glares. “I’m on your side, mage, despite what you may think.”

Anders’s ghost-pale face stares back at him, streaked with blood and sweat. “I—I’m sorry—“ He slumps back against the wall, staff clattering to the dirt, and clutches his side.

Fenris sheathes his sword. They don’t have time for this. He yanks Anders’s hands away. A crossbow bolt, stuck in the flesh all the way down to its coarse fletching. It’s gone in at a diagonal. “Bad, but not fatal. Heal as we go,” Fenris tells him, and tugs the bolt out so it doesn’t tear the flesh any further as they move.

Anders doesn’t cry out, just makes a stifled noise of pain, a whimper through his teeth. He nods and struggles to stand.

Fenris grabs one arm and hauls it over his shoulders (pain from the split flesh there, so he loses himself in the lyrium burn instead). He appropriates the mage’s staff to use as a walking stick.

Anders covers his wounded side again, warm white light radiating from his hand. “Hawke?” he gasps.

Fenris doesn’t slow. It’s fine. Hawke is safe. “Aveline has him.”

“Good.” Anders shuts his eyes briefly, grimacing. “Even aboveground, we’re—“ His voice grows strained, and he halts, forcing Fenris to wait. After a moment he masters the pain and continues forward. “Even aboveground, we’re not safe. We need to get to—my clinic. That place is known. They can’t get away with attacking it.”

“Fine.”

They encounter more resistance. Anders is little help, so Fenris has to push himself, drawing from the lyrium, drawing and drawing. The burn sinks into him, settling into his muscles, seeping into his bones. After the last pack of slavers, his body will simply not obey him, and he stays crouched in the dirt, waiting for it to become functional.

“What’s wrong?” Anders asks.

Fenris waits. It never takes this long. What if he’s pushed it too far?

“Fenris?”

His leg twitches beneath him. Fenris exhales, relieved. He rises and turns in one smooth motion. “Nothing is wrong.”

At last—at last—they break the surface, into the anemic dawn. Anders is barely conscious, injured and drained of magic, but he moves his feet. Fenris supposes it’s a good thing the man was a Grey Warden once. He can’t imagine a lifelong Circle mage would still be obstinately pressing onward. Eyes latch onto them from all sides. Not surprising. They’re both stumbling and covered in blood. Fenris scans the gathered faces, broadcasting a hard gaze to dissuade challenge. He thinks he could overcome anything these people mounted against him, but if the mage tried to help again he’d end up killing himself by accident.

Fenris kicks open the door of the clinic and dumps Anders on the linen-covered bed in the middle of the room. There’s a jug of water in the corner, and he goes to it.

“My sleeve is soaked—did I…”

Fenris pauses at the table, steadying himself against a rush of lightheadedness. Then he returns and holds out the jug.

Anders is sitting up, staring at his blood-drenched sleeve. “Is this—yours?”

“Yes.” The wound in his shoulder, right under Anders’s arm as they were walking. He proffers the jug again. “Here.”

“Maker’s breath.” Anders takes it. “How are you still on your feet?”

“Perhaps I don’t share your delicate constitution.”

“Oh, sod off,” he mumbles. “Let me close the wound, at least. Or you won’t have a drop of blood left in your body.”

“No. Hawke was…injured.” Fenris shifts, restless. Wishes Aveline were back already. “I know you’re nearly drained of magic, save what you have for him.”

“Hawke?” Anders whispers. “What happened?”

“Arrows.” _Red blood on the shafts shining black in the lyrium light_ — “He’s—he’ll be fine. Aveline will get him out.”

“Arrows, eh?” Anders drinks from the jug. “He’s usually faster than that. Maybe he was already hurt.”

Maybe. They all were. Fenris recalls the moment.  _Someone shouts his name. He scans, parrying, falling to one knee. Another shadow, off to his left, collapsing to the ground. Beyond, a pair of archers. A burning corpse illuminates two arrows sticking out of the man’s chest, and his face—_

He doesn’t notice he’s listing until he almost topples over. But Anders lunges forward and grabs his arm. “Look, now you’re just being stupid. Let me help you.”

Fenris hesitates. Accepting help from the mage is distasteful at best—

Anders rolls his eyes. “If it’s any consolation, I still don’t like you. You got me out of there, I’m just returning a favor.”

“Fine,” Fenris grumbles. “Just keep me on my feet. And don’t burn yourself out on me. Save that for Hawke.”

“You concern for my well-being is touching,” Anders remarks drily.

Fenris stands still and tries not to think about the fact that he’s letting someone work magic on him, tries to ignore how nice the warm blush of healing energy feels in his sliced shoulder. But now, without any enemies to worry about, his mind strays again to the darkened room, where  _someone shouts his name. He scans, parrying, falling to one knee. Another shadow, off to his left, collapsing —_

“Damn,” Anders breathes. “That’s…all I can do. For now.” He presses a hand to his eyes.

Fenris doesn’t move the shoulder. The mage’s work was likely shoddy and he’d rather not risk damaging it. “Hm.”

Then the door creaks open.

Fenris goes to draw his sword, but the tight pull of newly-healed flesh stops him. And anyway, it’s Aveline, clutching the doorframe in one gauntleted hand.

She’s alone.

“Hawke?” Fenris hears himself asking. “Where is Hawke?”

Aveline shakes her head.


	2. Chapter 2

“No,” Anders mumbles.

“I’m sorry.” Aveline comes inside and shuts the door, leaning against it. She slings her shield to the ground. “I tried, I really did.”

The anger comes first, as always, bearing Fenris forward like a tidal wave. “How could you leave him?!” He closes with her, fists balling, wanting to grab and shake her but holding himself back— “How could you leave him behind to die?!”

Aveline stands her ground, but she shuts her eyes, defeated. “He—he wouldn’t let me. He fought me, Fenris. Knew he wasn’t going to make it. He could hardly even breathe.”

Fenris’s vision tilts, flipping over to trap him once again in that underground room— _someone shouts his name. He scans, parrying, falling to one knee—_

“Honestly, if I’d tried to drag him out of there, they would have killed me too for sure.” Aveline wipes blood from below her eye. “He was protecting me.”

 _Another shadow, off to his left, collapsing to the ground. Beyond, a pair of archers._  The pieces of the battlefield slot into place.  _Someone shouts his name._  The archers, Hawke, and Fenris. Three points on a line.

“He was protecting  _me.”_  Fenris can hardly speak, not with his chest squeezed so tight like this, the awful knowledge crushing— “Those arrows were meant for me. He shouted my name but I didn’t get out of the way so he took them instead.”

The bleak set of Aveline’s face dissolves into open concern. “Fenris—no, you can’t blame yourself for this. It was a fight—“

“He warned me. I should have moved. I can’t believe—“ He breaks off. How could have let this happen?

“We all know the risk going in, Fenris.” Even Anders joining in. “This could’ve happened to any of us.”

“It didn’t,” he says dully.

“It won’t do you any good—oh, bugger.” Aveline stumbles sideways, planting a hand on the wall to catch herself.

“Aveline—“ Anders hops off the sickbed. “You’re injured.”

“It’s fine. I’m the only one here who can get help from the Circle.” She waves a hand. “Take care of Fenris. And yourself.”

Fenris moves away. “No. I—I’m fine.”

“Yes, plainly, that’s why you’re limping. Come on.” Anders points at the bed, its linen covering now blotted with blood.

Fenris shakes his head. “No. I don’t want your healing.”

“Oh,  _now_  my magic is beneath you?”

“Anders!” Aveline says sharply.

Fenris’s lip curls into something between a grin and a snarl. “Not just your magic, apostate.”

Anders rolls his eyes. “You know, I’d actually forgotten how much I hated you, so thanks for reminding me—“

Aveline cuts him off. “All right, you two, that’s enough! Honestly, of all the times to be sniping at each other. Could you both just—stop, for one, moment?”

“Not to worry. I’m leaving anyway.” Fenris pushes past her.

“Fenris, where are you going?” Aveline grabs his arm.

He yanks it away. “Home. To get some sleep. We’ve been up all night.”

“But…” Her voice retreats behind him. “You’re still bleeding.”

It’s true. The slash on his thigh is still open, as well as a dozen smaller wounds all over him. It doesn’t matter. They won’t kill him. The bad knee is still weak so he makes his slow, limping way back to Hightown. People stare as he goes at his bloodied face, his hunched form. But he has a reputation. No one confronts him.

His mind is empty. Hawke’s absence is a black cloud high on the horizon. Still far off, still contained. It hasn’t broken yet.

Fenris faintly hopes that, when it does, the resulting torrent will wash him clean away.

——

The mansion is dark, as always.

Fenris strips off his armor, exposes his wounds. Some still issue a sluggish ooze of blood. He washes and wraps them. The simple motions soak up his disordered focus.

Then he dresses again and lies in bed, wan grey light filtering in through the curtains. He gazes at the room around him. It’s empty. The other half of the bed is empty. The house is empty. Everything is empty. He hasn’t thought about that in a long time.

——

In the evening, when he wakes up, nothing has changed. His house is still full of dust. His wounds still ache. Hawke is still gone.

What is he supposed to do now?

He gets to his feet and stands there beside the bed for a few moments. The mansion is silent. He becomes aware of the even rise and fall of his chest.

So many more breaths to take. What is he going to do with all of them? He’s not running anymore. And Hawke is gone.

Someone knocks at the door.

It used to be Hawke.  _Well, another day, another sordid plot to foil. You interested?_  It’s not Hawke anymore. He doesn’t move from the bedroom. Whoever it is, he has no answers for them.

There’s another knock. Fenris waits.

There’s silence.

He climbs back into bed.

——

The numb shock seeps away with the last rays of sun. Fenris tries to sleep again and mostly doesn’t succeed, suspended instead in a place between, a half-awake state that holds his body quiescent but his mind racing.

He thinks of Hawke. Hawke’s easy smile, the high, merry laughter, the sheepish grins (Bethany telling them how he once tried to impress a girl with his riding skills and ended up thrown into a bramble patch and needing the same girl’s rescue; Hawke’s red face, the embarrassed chuckle as he tried to shut his cackling sister up). Thinking of it, Fenris smiles now, as he always did when he saw Hawke happy. Never again.

A fitful roll onto his side, his lean legs curling up to his chest. The broken skin on his slashed thigh shifts under the bandage. Hawke never seemed to mind pain all that much either, more irritated than anything whenever he got hurt. Fenris minded. He knew it was unavoidable, in their line of work, but seeing Hawke injured always distressed him, and he’d make himself look away so as not set to worrying at Hawke like a widow at her wedding ring—

_The arrows both sunk deep in his chest, red blood on the shafts shining black in the lyrium light—_

Fenris makes a muted noise between closed lips, as if struck by some unseen enemy. But there’s no one else here. The house is empty.

How could he have let this happen?

He replays it over and over in his head. Hawke shouting his name. The parrying, scanning the room wildly, seeing shadows in the dark—

He should have known. He should have moved. And instead—why would Hawke do that? The Champion of Kirkwall is far more important than an ex-slave, and a sour, antisocial one at that. How could he have thrown his life away for Fenris?

Unbidden, clearer even than the visions of the battle, the memory of that night comes to him. Not the sex (though that, too, sweaty, close, and  _good_ ), but how they were after. Hawke’s arms around him, the unbearable comfort of someone else’s skin on his own. Head on Hawke’s chest, fingers playing with the dark hair on his stomach. Hawke murmuring “I love you.” Over and over. And his eyes, filled with so much tenderness Fenris could hardly understand it. Never had he felt anything like that. It reminded him of once when he was younger, and Danarius pointed out an ash-tailed comet hanging above them, told him it wouldn’t appear again for another hundred years. Fenris stared up at the bright blur in the sky, trying to engrave it into his mind, knowing he wouldn’t get another chance to see it.

His night with Hawke was something like that. The intimacy was more wonderful than anything he’d ever imagined, and he couldn’t imagine it happening again. Hawke may have found it easy, but for Fenris it was too unfamiliar, too— _much._  There was no way someone as embittered as he could sustain that, especially with the memories lancing through his head like white-hot needles. He was sure he’d fail somehow. But Hawke kept trying, with his moony eyes and his damned radiant smiles. And Fenris’s reluctance was starting to lose ground.

All that for nothing now. That night will never be more than singular moment. Fenris clutches at it desperately, but it was well over a year ago, and he thinks the details are starting to slip away. What color were the sheets? Was Hawke’s beard trimmed, or had he let it grow?

Fenris does remember two things quite clearly. The sensation of Hawke’s skin on his. And the sound of those murmured words: “I love you.”

He lies there frozen, now and then dipping shallowly into sleep. Whenever he surfaces again, it’s always to that murmur in his ear, the warmth of Hawke’s bulk at his back. But the words sift away to the sound of his own quiet breathing, and only the cool air brushes his skin through his clothes.

Eventually he can no longer stand it, and he rolls out of bed and descends the stairs.

——

He doesn’t make it very far. He goes to the door, squinting out the window—dawn again, it seems—then realizes there’s nowhere he wants to go. So instead he goes back into the main hall and sits down against a wall. Perhaps it’s something about the new location, but his head empties out again, and he stares at nothing, unbothered by phantom words or sensations.

The knocking jars him from his stupor.

“Fenris? Are you in there?”

Varric? What is he doing here?

“We heard what happened. And we—can we come in?”

And Isabela, too. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t want to talk to anyone right now.

“Okay, well, I  _know_  you’re in there, so will you please open up?”

“No,” he calls.

There’s a moment of silence, then a faint scratching noise. Is she—unbelievable. Fenris stands and goes to the atrium.

Isabela pops the lock. The door swings open, and she steps inside, Varric at her heel. “Oh. There you are.”

“Go away.” He turns and walks back into the hall.

The click of bootsteps behind him. Damn them. “Listen, elf…Aveline told us what happened.”

Fenris freezes, then faces the dwarf as if moving through mud. “About how Hawke…”

“About how you blame yourself. And you just—you can’t do that, Fenris.” Varric gestures helplessly. “It’ll chew you right up. Real bad.”

Aveline told them. Fenris feels small, exposed, like a child who’s been caught stealing. A twitch runs through him, and he takes a convulsive step back before he recovers. “Any more pearls of wisdom to offer me, dwarf?” he asks drily.

Isabela isn’t quite her boisterous self; she hangs in the threshold, staring at the floor. But she looks up at him now. “Fenris—none of us blame you. Hawke cared a lot about you. He made a choice.”

“A poor one, it seems.” Fenris folds his arms, his fingers tugging at the edge of a bandage.

Varric exhales. “ _Anyway._ We’re here because we don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be alone right now. Don’t take this the wrong way, but, well, you’re a little…sensitive.”

Fenris lets out a brittle laugh. “What? Are you afraid I’m going to cast myself into the sea? Or perhaps tear my own heart out of my chest in a fit of grief? I assure you, no such thing has crossed my mind.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just—“ there’s not a trace of humor visible in Isabela’s manner, which is very disconcerting, “—Varric’s right. If you keep all that guilt inside you, it’ll eat you alive. Don’t carry it alone.”

He stares at her, thinking of a moment or two here and there when someone would mention the Qunari uprising and she would sort of look away and drift out of the conversation. The pang of sympathy quavers in him like a plucked string. But he stills it. “Yes, well, thank you for your expert advice, but I’d rather you go find someone else to get drunk with.”

Isabela’s face flashes with hurt disbelief, then hardens. Good. Varric takes her arm. “Let me try and handle him, okay?”

She spins and strides back toward the atrium.

Varric sighs as the front door slams shut. “She took it pretty hard herself, you know.” He watches Fenris evenly. “If you’re going to self-sabotage like that, do me a favor and don’t drag her down with you too.”

Fenris flinches. Damn the dwarf.

“It might make things better for a little while, but when it wears off, you’re still gonna feel just as awful as you ever did.” Varric jerks his head. “Come on, Fenris. It’s better to be around friends. And in case you were worried about it, Blondie headed back to his clinic just before we came here to pick you up.”

Fenris gives him a cool smile. “You appear to be overestimating our bond, dwarf. You cannot make me feel better. Isabela cannot make me feel better. No amount of that swill they serve in your foul tavern can make me feel better. Only Hawke could do that, and Hawke is dead.”

It doesn’t work as well as he’d hoped. Varric merely raises an eyebrow, then shrugs. “Well, I can’t say I didn’t try.” He turns to go, waving over his shoulder. “When you get tired of kneecapping yourself, you know where I’ll be.”

Then he’s gone. So maybe it did have the intended effect after all.

Fenris returns to his position at the base of the wall and folds his legs up to his chest, curling his toes into the dust on the floor.

——

His mind doesn’t stay empty for long. Hawke’s absence gathers in the dark, crowding out the insensate void that had been keeping it at bay. Shadows and silhouettes appear before him, crouching down to stroke his face (with such inconceivable tenderness, like that one night—) or to smile at him. They start to murmur or laugh.  _“Fenris, have you_ ever _dusted this place? Even once? Why don’t I stay for a bit and help you out?” “Listen, Fenris, you don’t have to laugh at ALL my jokes. I know they’re terrible. Really, it’s all right.” “Fenris? Fenris! Are you hurt?” “I love you.”_

He presses his hands to his ears as if that’ll stop it. Notices the faint burn of his skin, the blue-white glow from his lyrium tattoos. He’s getting agitated. He tries to calm himself. Without success.

Gone. Hawke is gone, for good. All because he didn’t listen to Hawke’s warning. He knows now, he  _knows_ , it’s so clear what he should have done. A few steps back would’ve put him in the cover of the corridor. The moment hounds him; he shuts it out, only to have it come battering in from elsewhere.  _Someone shouts his name. He scans, parrying, falling to one knee. Another shadow, off to his left, collapsing—_

He sits there, paralyzed. Waits for safety. Waits for the damning guilt to leave him alone. But it doesn’t tire, just keeps at him, snapping and snarling and drawing blood.

His only reprieve comes sometime in the afternoon. The door swings open again (because he never locked it after Isabela broke in, of course). Fenris remains firmly where he is and hopes they’ll go away. He’s been spending all his energy fighting himself and doesn’t know if he has any left to fight off sympathizers.

The door closes. Fenris frowns. He doesn’t hear footsteps. He rises to his feet (knees creaking, back sore) and peeks around the wall.

There’s a skinny grey cat sitting on the doormat. It yowls at him.

“What are you…” Fenris comes closer and crouches next to it. It backs away, then sits down. It’s wearing a collar of colored twine, with something attached. Fenris plucks it off.

A note. Wonderful. He stares at the indecipherable dots and lines on the scrap of paper. Is it that hard to remember he can’t read? He tucks the note into his pocket. The cat headbutts his hand, and he scratches its ears absently.

Then it turns and trots off into another room.

Fenris stays crouched there for a minute, then returns to the hall.

——

Everywhere Fenris looks. Never angry, nor even disappointed. Unaware that he’s dead. Hawke ambles about, pauses in thought, turns and smiles. Chatters away, telling some story that ends somewhere off to the left of where he’d meant it to go. Sometimes he fights invisible enemies, slipping by and through them with effortless grace. Sometimes he’s close, right there, holding Fenris, kissing him gently.

Sometimes he’s bleeding. The arrows are both sunk deep in his chest, red blood on the shafts shining black in the lyrium light. He rolls to all fours, gasping. His face is twisted in pain, hands groping weakly—

Fenris shoots to his feet, wavering, planting a hand on the wall to steady himself. Fine. He’ll give in. If the guilt’s going to keep eating away at him like this, then he’ll give it something to chew on.

He washes himself quickly first, and changes his bloodied bandages. The lyrium helps him heal faster than most, but the granulated flesh still shows beneath his split skin. It’s not very attractive. He leaves his weapon behind. Perhaps a risk, but the thought barely touches him right now.

Then he pushes his door open and strides out into the fading dusk.


	3. Chapter 3

Hightown is dark and cool, with few people about. The cobbles are smooth under his feet, and stone arches veer over him, pale in the encroaching night. Too clean. Too ordered. The battle whirls around him, out of place in this haven of wealth. Fenris stalks through the streets, eyed, as always, by guardsmen. He spares them little more than a few poisonous glances.

Lowtown is no better. More cramped, less friendly, which is good. But it’s too familiar. The Hanged Man, where he plays cards with Isabela and Varric (and Hawke). And there, near the alienage, where six years ago he heard the sounds of furious battle and cursed himself—how many dogs did Danarius send this time?—and descended, at least, on the reinforcements, hoping the poor fools he’d swindled into playing bait would still be alive when he showed up to help.

As it turned out, they didn’t need his help. Hawke wasn’t even angry he’d been tricked. That was the first time Fenris saw him smile.

He’s not sure if it started then. But something distracted him that night, despite the overwhelming fact of Danarius’s presence in Kirkwall.

Now, he passes through a dusty alley, a tall wooden structure shading his path from the moonlight. Men watch him from the shadows. A dog barks. He hurries on.

At last he reaches Darktown.

More people on the street, but fewer eyes follow him. The people of Darktown mostly keep to themselves. Not to mention he’s a not infrequent visitor here, or was with Hawke, and they had a tendency to leave bodies behind wherever they went. Fenris hopes the reputation won’t foil his evening plans too badly.

The place he’s searching for is tucked away into a corner, shielded by a veritable maze of convoluted alleyways. He only remembers the location because he once met a contact not far from here. He gazes up at the hanging sign. Half of it is broken off—a shame, he suspects the missing image would be obscene enough to give even Isabela pause—but the name is still intact.  _Stab in the Back Tavern._

A shiver of disgust passes through him. He masters it and pushes the door open.

Everything stops.

The bar is mostly in shadows, a few flickering lanterns here and there hardly enough to shoulder aside the smothering dark. It’s full of men, and only men, all of whom are staring at him now. His ice-white hair, the tattoos coiling down his arms and up his neck, no doubt known to at least a few of them, and intimidating to others.

He approaches the bar. A small cluster of patrons leap up and flee as he draws closer. He takes a vacated seat and gestures to the barkeep. The man is still staring in shock, but he jerks into motion, hurriedly filling a mug.

A whisper from some corner. Fenris accepts the mug and takes an experimental sip. Eminently worse than what they serve in the Hanged Man. He tips his head back and gulps it down. Being drunk will likely make this easier. The last of the vile liquid slithers down his throat, and he slaps the mug down, motioning for another.

The few seats on either side of him remain empty for a long time. He keeps drinking to damp the impatience. He hasn’t killed anyone yet, and isn’t even armed. How long will it take? The air in here is hot and thick, as if there are bodies pressed against him on all sides (not the least bit true—every person here is giving him a very wide berth). The feeling isn’t unwelcome. It covers over the sensation he’s trying to escape, that of Hawke’s soft touch, the gentle kisses on his neck and shoulders—

“Oi! Elf!”

Fenris raises an eyebrow. At last. He’s not the only elf in here, but likely the only one who merits shouting at. He rotates on the barstool. “Yes?”

“You got some bleeding nerve walking in here.”

The man is big, tall and burly, with a thuggish scowl he must have been practicing his whole life. He’s flanked by three other men, who are also wearing scowls, although theirs are less impressive. Maybe that’s why they have yet to move up in the ranks. Fenris finishes off his mug of whatever-it-is. “Do I?”

“You’re supposed to be good, yeah…but you think you can take all of us? Unarmed?” The man indicates the whole tavern.

Fenris refrains from pointing out the obvious fear on some patrons’ faces and that it surely wouldn’t be  _all_  of them. Instead he drops his eyes to avert conflict. “I didn’t come here to fight.”

That one throws them, scowls giving way to faint confusion. The smallest one pipes up. “There’s better places to get drunk, elf.”

“Oh, yes, I discovered that quickly enough.” Fenris lifts his empty mug and drops it back to the counter. Then he waits.

The one who just spoke frowns. “Then…why are you here?”

Fenris rolls his eyes. Must he explain it in detail? “For approximately the same reason you are, I expect.”

Their leader’s the first one to get it, his lip curling in disbelief. “You came here for a fuck?”

Fenris puts on half a grin. At least the alcohol’s kicking in. “That is the entire purpose of this place, isn’t it?”

“You’re joking. If that were true, you’d just hit that fancy whorehouse up in Hightown.”

He snorts. “The Blooming Rose doesn’t have what I’m looking for.”

They’re starting to get it. Finally. Fenris watches their eyes shift from his face further down, to his slouched body, his dangling legs. Took them long enough. The leader takes a cautious step forward, as if approaching a wild animal. When Fenris doesn’t lunge and snap, he takes another step, then another. Reaches out.

His hand is rough and hot, his skin greasy where he touches Fenris’s face and neck. His thumb slides over Fenris’s lower lip, dragging it down as if checking for fangs.

Fenris’s breath snags in his chest as if caught on an iron spike, and he swallows the disgust that rises like bile in his throat. Instead he remains perfectly still, gazing up at the man whose hand is on his neck. After a few seconds the contact becomes comforting. Exciting.

“Good.” The man grins. “Looks like you’re coming with me. And my friends.”

A chorus of murmuring from the rest of the tavern. If only they’d known how easy it was. They could’ve just come up and asked. Fenris slides off his stool and assesses the group of men he’s agreed to go home with. They’re all bigger than him—he is rather slim, after all. The three in the back still appear to be in shock. The leader, however, is leering. Probably picturing the same thing Fenris is. Of Fenris’s lithe form, exposed, skin smeared and shining. Surrounded by dark figures, their breath hot, sweat beading in their thick body hair. Hands reach down to stroke him, to open his mouth—

Fenris shakes himself. They’re waiting. He goes to the door.

The air outside isn’t much better than it was in the tavern, the summer heat having settled on the ground like a heavy fog. He walks among them, receiving their eager stares. The streets are narrow, decrepit buildings leaning in above them. He feels trapped. A relief right now, to be trapped here instead of in his empty house, sitting in the hall and listening to Hawke's gentle words.  _I love you._ Not anymore. One of the men wraps an arm around his waist, leans in with a feral grin. "Nothing to worry about. We're gonna take good care of you."

 _There_ , he thinks to his restless guilt, still pacing at the back of his mind.  _Is that good enough? Does it satisfy you? Will you leave me alone now?_

“FENRIS!”

He lurches to a stop and turns around. Can’t be—

Aveline jogs up, with Donnic at her heel and a couple of guards behind them. “There you are, finally. Come on, I’m taking you home.”

Ridiculous. Fenris is nearly too dumbfounded to speak. “How did you—how did you find me?”

She sighs. “I have—sources.”

He steps forward. “You  _used your informants_  to track me?”

“Yes, I did. I was afraid you might do something stupid. And it looks like I was right on the mark, wasn’t I? For Andraste’s sake.”

Fenris’s escorts haven’t left despite the guards’ presence, perhaps reluctant to lose their prize. Maybe this can still be salvaged. “I don’t need you nagging me, Aveline. Get out of Darktown. It’s not safe for guards.” He waves a dismissive hand.

She stays where she is. “I’m not leaving without you, Fenris. That’s all there is to it.”

He snorts. “What, you’re going to clap me in irons?” He lifts an arm, lets the lyrium phase it out. “You know they won’t work very well—“

She flings her hands, exasperated. “I don’t know, Fenris, are you going to fight me? The choice is yours.”

Now the men edge forward. Fenris glances to his left and right.  _They’ll_ fight, given the excuse. Aveline’s still staring him down.  _Are you going to fight me?_

Of course not. There was never a chance of it. She’s been a far better friend to him than he deserves, and he won’t be the cause of her getting hurt. So, abruptly, he breaks away from his new acquaintances and joins the small squad of guards. “Let’s just go,” he mutters.

Aveline shakes her head and turns to leave. “Unbelievable. I expected a lot of things from you, but not this.”

Donnic tries to smile at him briefly. Fenris offers his most venomous glare. Donnic averts his eyes after that.

The shame builds as he walks, diluted by the alcohol but still growing in layers. Absently he lifts a hand to his neck, where that man touched him, and imagines he can still feel the grease. He wishes he could shake Aveline off, go back to the tavern, find someone else to touch him some more. Slide their fingers in under the layers of shame. But that’s not going to happen. Instead he rubs his eyes. The ale and the heat are starting to make him sleepy.

The two guards he doesn’t know relax visibly when they reach Lowtown. Without thinking, Fenris mutters “I’m sorry.” His fault they got dragged out to the most dangerous part of the city. But he supposes Aveline must have chosen them because she trusted them, both for their skill and their discretion She walks right next to Fenris, perhaps so she could more easily lay hands on him if he tried to make a daring escape. He’s not planning any such thing. Confronted by the stupidity of his own actions, he’s embarrassed and just wants to put this whole thing behind him.

Aveline dismisses their escort when they pass into Hightown, giving Donnic a quick kiss before sending him off. As Fenris watches them, the longing pierces straight through the alcohol haze, worse than ever. A blade through the armor. He and Hawke could have had that. If only he hadn’t fled that night. If only Hawke hadn’t made that choice during the battle.

“Come on.” Aveline jerks her head. “I’m taking you home.”

“I’m sorry,” he says again as he follows her. Tries to elaborate but all his many mistakes get muddled up with each other, and he can’t untangle them to name them for her.

“I know, Fenris.” She takes his arm and squeezes it gently.

He unlocks his front door, goes inside, and turns to lock it again, only to find Aveline next to him in the shadowed atrium. He waits for her to head back out. She does not.

Oh. She must be staying.

There’s a rasping yowl from a side room, and a diminutive shape trots toward them. Aveline takes a step back. “Now who’s this?”

“A cat.” Fenris walks toward the kitchen. “It’s probably hungry.”

“I didn’t know you had a cat,” Aveline says, at his heel.

“I didn’t. Someone deposited it inside my house this afternoon. I think it was the mage.” He lights a candle, finds some dried meat in the cupboard, and fills a saucer with water.

The cat gnaws at its dinner. Aveline crouches beside it, reaching out with a hesitant hand, then withdrawing. “That was nice of him.”

“Mm.”

“Have you named it?”

“No.” He walks out of the kitchen, carrying his candle.

Aveline still hasn’t confronted him. He has a faint hope she’ll just leave him alone with his misery. Impossible. Not after how she found him tonight. He flops down in his customary armchair. Aveline sits opposite, in the chair that once belonged to Hawke. Fenris almost asks her to choose a different seat before he realizes what an idiotic request that is.

“I’m not asking you to move on tomorrow. Or next week, or next month. I’m only asking you to take care of yourself.”

Fenris stares at her through the dark. The candle’s flame is tiny and he can’t see a damn thing. He goes to the fireplace and starts fussing with it.

She talks to his turned back. “It’s just that—blaming yourself doesn’t make any  _sense._  We’ve all nearly died at one point or another. That’s how fights go. There were far too many of them, the odds were piled against us.”

“I know, it’s not that, it’s—“ He pauses, then keeps stuffing splinters of wood into the coals. “It was a poor decision.”

“A poor decision? It was either you or him, Fenris, and he chose you.”

“Yes, but he  _shouldn’t_  have. He’s—the Champion, he can do anything, everybody loves him. And I—I live alone, in an empty house. I don’t—make friends, I don’t fix problems, unless it’s with Hawke. I’m—spiteful, and moody, and…prickly.” Fenris dips the candle into his little ball of kindling. It catches. “He knows all this. Knew all this. He shouldn’t have done it.”

“Well, I can refute you on one count, at least. You’ve made friends since you’ve been here. Do you think I would have waded that far into Darktown for someone I didn’t like?”

He smiles at her over his shoulder. “If they were in danger, yes.”

She tips her head back into the faded red fabric. “Well, maybe you’re right. But the point is, you have friends.”

He stands slowly. “I suppose…Isabela and Varric did visit earlier. They encouraged me to join them at the Hanged Man. I declined.”

“You see? Despite what you think of yourself.”

“The fact remains.” He returns to his armchair, curling his legs up to his chest. “All of my friends are people I met because of Hawke. Anything I do, anything of substance, was all through him. And now—what? He isn’t here. What can I do? How can I fill that debt?”

“Fenris—it’s not a debt.” The fire is growing, little by little, and the light catches Aveline’s hair, setting it aglow in a warm autumn red. “You life isn’t worth less than his was. What happened is that Hawke knew you, better than anyone, and he loved you so much he wanted you to keep on living, no matter the cost to himself.”

 _He loved you._  Fenris hopes those aren’t tears in his eyes, but he rubs at them just in case. One more thing to add to his already impressive embarrassment regarding tonight’s events. He blames the alcohol.

“He talked about you all the time, you know.” She smiles at him in the half-dark. “Whenever he visited me. We’d talk about my goings-on, and then I’d ask him how he was doing, and somehow the conversation always turned to you. He always wanted to know if you’d asked me about him, whenever I was here with Donnic for Diamondback.”

She started inviting herself over after she discovered her husband was sneaking out to play cards. Fenris gazes at her over his knees. “He—inquired about me?”

“Every time. You were the apple of his eye. Truly.”

The thought stings right now, and he watches the fire so he doesn’t have to see Aveline’s honest face, the affection he still never quite expects.

She sighs. “I’m not quite that enamored with you, but even I can see you’re a good man, Fenris. Maker knows you make my life difficult sometimes, but you’ve done a lot of good here.”

“Always with Hawke.” Fenris leans back in his chair. “So what do I do now?”

“Well…” She shrugs. “All those jobs I referred to him aren’t just going to go away.”

Fenris raises an eyebrow. “You want me to—take his place?”

“I wasn’t thinking of it like that. Just as helping me keep the city safe. And when you’re not…I don’t know, do you have any hobbies?”

That reminds him. He goes to the pile of clothes he discarded earlier in the evening and digs up the note he’d stuck in his pocket, handing it to her. “What does this say?”

She squints at it in the flickering light, then looks up at him quizzically. “It says…’I’m a cat and even I know this wasn’t your fault.’ “

“Mm.” He takes the note back, holding it in his hand, and sits again. “Perhaps…I could learn to read at last.”

“Perhaps you could. Or sharpen your skills at Wicked Grace. I hear you’re pretty deep in the hole with Varric.”

He gives the fireplace a half-grin. “I suppose…I’ll have to pay for myself from now on.”

Some of the larger logs have caught, and he can see Aveline’s face better now, framed by her copper hair. “Hawke was a bit of an idiot sometimes, but he was a good judge of character,” she tells him. “He chose you because he knows how much you have in you. You don’t have to be a ghost anymore, Fenris. You’ve got the whole world in front of you. You can make your own life.”

None of Danarius’s dogs have come after him in almost two years. After Hadriana’s death, he suspects the man decided it wasn’t worth it. There’s nothing keeping him shackled anymore. Nothing holding him back.

“Aveline?” he says.

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For coming to find me tonight.”

“Just don’t make me do it again. I have limits, you know.” She stands.

“I know. And…I apologize. I will be better. From now on.”

“That’s good to hear. And Fenris—you can always ask for help. You don’t have to do everything alone.”

“Yes. I…I will do that.” Thinking about it, he realizes it might actually be true.

“All right.” She lets out a lionlike yawn. “Oh, Maker, I’m tired. I’m heading home. Good night, Fenris. We’ll talk again soon.”

“Good night.”

He gazes into the fire for a while after that. It’s caught quite well by now, and lively light fills the room. He shuts his eyes and lets the warmth soak into him until he falls, at last, into a dreamless sleep.

——

He wakes with a crick in his neck. Damn him for passing out in the armchair. Fewer mugs of ale next time, perhaps. Fenris gets to his feet, bending over to touch his toes, his back crackling.  _Ouch._

His wounds don’t ache so badly this…morning? Afternoon? He peers out the window, wincing as the sunlight jabs straight into his waiting hangover. Morning. He wasn’t asleep very long. Probably because he was crammed into that cursed chair. He ponders trying to get more rest but decides against it. Just some tea, to start with, to soothe his pounding head.

As he lets the tea steep, the cat comes up and winds around his ankles, letting out a croaking meow. He feeds it again and discovers he’s low on food. Well, that’s one thing he could do today. Go to the market. And then…what? The Hanged Man, to apologize to Isabela and Varric for his unkind words. And then…

Anything at all, he supposes.

The tea helps. As does the cat, loath as he is to admit it. It’s nice to have another soul in this house. Maybe it can take over a few of the empty rooms. Put them to use. He certainly hasn’t done that yet, even if it has been six years.

He’s on his second cup of tea when someone pounds on his door.

“Coming,” he calls, and sets the cup down placidly. Maybe it’s Isabela come to berate him for his inexcusable behavior yesterday. Convenient—he won’t have to go all the way to the Hanged Man to apologize to her. He opens the door.

It’s Aveline and Varric, both deadly serious. Varric shoves a piece of paper at him. “Take a look at this.”

Fenris regards the mysterious lines and squiggles. “I’m looking.”

Varric snatches it away, exasperated. “It’s a damned ransom note!”

Fenris frowns. “For whom?”

Varric grits his teeth. “For Hawke.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: If this chapter reads as rushed it's because I had exams. So many exams. My apologies.

Fenris feels as if he’s standing on the deck of a ship that’s just taken a very steep roll. He gropes for the threshold, closes his fingers around it. “Hawke’s—alive?”

“He was when this was written. It contains specific details of how much money he owes me,” Varric says. “Well, technically  _you_  owe me.”

Fenris barely hears, blood rushing in his ears like a rain-swollen river. “He’s—he’s alive! We have to help him!”

“Damnit, it’s not that simple, elf.” Varric stuffs the note back in his pocket. “Even if we do bring them the sum they’re asking for, I can’t imagine they’d let Hawke walk out of there alive. He’s been tearing up their operation for years now.”

“Then how do we do it?” He sounds plaintive even to his own ears, but can’t help it right now—

Varric sighs. “Can we talk it over here, at your place? Anywhere else, I’m afraid they’ll be listening.”

——

Fenris plies Varric with questions. When did he receive the note? Who gave it to him? Did they say anything else about Hawke? Varric’s patient at first, but his nerves are frayed too and he soon snaps at Fenris to wait until the mage arrives, he’ll lay out all the details then.

Fenris hovers in the hall for a moment, paralyzed, the panicked energy threatening to vibrate right out of his skin. He finds it is, in a sense. His tattoos are shimmering with that faint agitated glow.

Abruptly he turns and heads to the kitchen. Guests. And not the usual. The least he can do is make tea. He sets the kettle to boil and leans against the wall, waiting. Hawke is alive. How? Fenris saw the arrows—it doesn’t matter. It’s true (or was, very recently, and  _must_  still be). A chance to repair this unceasing longing, like a window that won’t close, letting in the cold. Again a picture of Hawke’s smile floats across his mind, not the distant, hollowed-out specters he was seeing before, but warm, excited,  _alive_ —

“I think it’s boiling, Fenris.” Aveline plucks the shrilling kettle from the fire and sets it on the tray.

“Er—yes. My apologies.”

Varric appears in the doorway. “Tea? No thank you. Never touch the stuff.”

Aveline rolls her eyes at him and starts pouring. Fenris stands next to the wall, feeling somewhat vestigial. Then someone knocks frantically at the door. There. Something to do. Fenris goes to answer it and remembers halfway there who it’ll be; his footsteps catch, but he continues on.

Anders is standing on the doorstep. “Hawke’s alive?”

“So it seems.” Fenris heads back inside. The urge to sneer at the mage’s naked desperation is tempered somewhat by the knowledge that he himself must have looked just the same when he first received the news. “Would you like some tea?”

A stunned silence from behind him, then a hesitant “I—yes. That would be—quite welcome.”

They settle at the kitchen table, where the Diamondback games usually take place because all of the sitting rooms are layered with dust and the furniture dotted with little holes from the moths. Varric places the note in the middle of the table. Fenris can’t help staring at black scrawl, despite the frustrating barrier of his illiteracy. It’s proof that Hawke’s alive, or the best they can expect.

The exchange is to happen below Darktown at sunset. The note mentions “the three of you.” That’s him, Aveline, and Anders, those the slavers have already met. “Perhaps they want to kill all of us,” Fenris mutters.

Varric shrugs. “Possible. I think they just want to raise their chances of you actually going for this. I’m sure they’ll be out in force, and if they let you feel safe you’re more likely to show up with the money.”

The requested sum is enormous. Everyone knows Hawke’s rich. Varric thinks he can arrange for it to be withdrawn from Hawke’s account at the bank, with Bodahn’s help and the note as proof.

“But that still doesn’t solve the problem of how we keep them from slitting his throat the second we give the ransom over,” Aveline points out.

Fenris slouches back in his chair. He’s not very good with negotiating. He prefers to intimidate, or, even better, to let his greatsword solve the problem for him.

“Yes, I know. If I could go with you, I might be able to help you out, but…” Varric shrugs helplessly. “…without knowing the setup, I can’t offer much beyond basic advice.”

 _Slitting his throat the second we give the ransom over._  Fenris pictures it and then wishes he hadn’t. He can’t go through that again. Would gladly switch places with Hawke if he could, let them slit his own throat rather than—

He stares at his hands, at the four lyrium lines inscribed on his palm like a second skeleton.

Aveline and Varric are still talking, but Fenris hasn’t been listening. “I have an idea,” he says.

——

Anders leads the way. He doesn’t have Hawke’s unerring sense of direction, but he does know these tunnels best out of the three of them.

Fenris is calm this time. He’s healthy again, Anders having healed him in the afternoon. His hands hang loosely at his sides. The darkness is less of a malicious presence now than a familiar one. Comforting, almost. They’re returning. They’re putting things right.

“I still don’t like this,” Aveline murmurs beside him.

“It will be all right, Aveline,” he responds.

“Hawke won’t like it, either.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

There are dark, rusty patches on the ground beneath their feet, which might be remnant bloodstains from the slavers he put down two days ago. The sight puts a smile on his face.

Aveline shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’re smiling at a time like this.”

“Why not? Hawke is alive.”

She rolls her eyes at him. “I swear, you two…oh, never mind.”

There’s a faint light up ahead, beyond the reach of Anders’s makeshift torch. “It’s them,” Aveline whispers, and grips her sword hilt. But Fenris touches her arm, and she glances at him, lets her hand fall.

Fenris strides out into the room.

There are…a lot of them. That’s the first thing he notices, by the light of their single torch. But he scans the gathered figures, searching, searching…

In the back, hunched over, held on either side by a sturdy-looking guard. But alive.

Hawke.

“I don’t see any big fat satchels of money, elf.”

Fenris blinks. He’s being addressed. A woman in the front. From the arrogant tilt of her head and her hip, he’s guessing she’s in charge. “We don’t have your money,” he says. “Hawke is the only one with access to that kind of coin.”

Her eyes glint in the flicker of flame. “Then you better come up with something fast or you’re going to be carrying what’s left of Rowan Hawke back to the surface in a burlap sack.”

Fenris waits for her to finish her pedestrian threats. “We would like to propose a trade.”

“Oh yeah? What exactly d’you have on offer?”

“Me.”

A slight movement from the back of the room. Hawke. Fenris prays he doesn’t interfere. “I’m worth far more than Hawke is,” he calls to their leader. “There’s a particular magister in Tevinter who would pay more for me alone than you see in a year.”

“Oh, shit.” The woman hesitates for a moment, thinking. “I heard rumors about you. One of those old fucks, paying a king’s ransom to whoever could bring in the elf with the tattoos. ‘Cept no one wanted to try since you kept killing all of ‘em.”

He’d suspected, but it’s still gratifying to hear. He keeps his expression neutral. “Then I guess it’s your lucky day.”

“Get rid of the sword first.”

He unsheathes his blade and casts it to the ground at his feet. Good. This is all going smoothly. No disturbances. No excuses for them to hurt Hawke.

“Right.” She jerks her head at him and motions to the two men holding Hawke. “Come on over.”

Fenris waits, first, until they’ve unlocked the manacles that bound Hawke’s hands behind his back. Waits until Hawke is shoved forward, stumbling.

Time to get this over with. He starts walking.

They meet in the middle, for just a brief moment. Hawke says something. “Fenris—“

Fenris ignores him and moves on past.

“Hawke!“ Anders, behind him, not even trying to cover that runaway devotion of his—but Fenris grimaces, decides he shouldn’t be so unkind. After all, Anders isn’t the one who went out last night looking for a rough fuck to distract himself from the pain of the loss. He stops in front of the woman. She’s stocky and hard, peering up at him without the slightest hint of intimidation.

She grins. “Cuff him.”

Fenris holds out his hands.

The manacles close around his wrists. Something he hasn’t felt in a long time—in the later years of his servitude, he would submit himself to punishment completely, having at last overcome the reflexive urge to struggle and cry out. It pleased his master to see that, and thus the chains were no longer used. So it has been a long time. Yet the first things that come to mind when he feels the smooth metal rub against his skin are  _safety_  and  _home._

Fenris sighs in annoyance. Wonderful. To distract himself he thinks again of Hawke curled up behind him, soft chest hair tickling his back. The kisses on his neck and shoulders.  _That’s_ what should bring to mind safety and home. But it hasn’t quite—still the sour tinge of failure, the feeling like he was entrusted with some irreplaceable treasure and then dropped and broke it the very next day.

The woman shoves him. “All right, elf. Let’s move.”

He obeys, shuffling forward toward the exit and into the corridor. The slavers close ranks behind him. The darkness looms ahead, unknown and waiting, frayed edges clinging to the earthen walls. Murmurs float up from the bulk of slavers following him. They can’t believe their luck. They’re going to be rich.

The clank of metal interrupts their fantasizing. Some of them look around for the source of the noise.

Fenris flexes his spectral wrists and toes aside the fallen manacles. “Ah. That’s much better.”

For a moment—for one moment—everything is still. Fenris lets them understand. Behind them, the city’s guard-captain and its most notorious apostate—not to mention, if he’s angry enough to join in, the Champion of Kirkwall. And in front of them, the elf who kills slavers. And who is now unbound.

In the stillness Fenris thinks again of Hawke’s warm skin on his.

 _Safety._  And  _home._

When the shouting begins he lets the lyrium explode out of him in a vicious halo. It throws them back, hurling one or two against the wall hard enough to daze them. Perfect. He kneels, appropriates a sword from its unguarded sheath. A shortsword, but the fighting arts rise readily to the surface of his mind, his muscles thrumming with precise and lethal forms, his eyes eagerly searching out openings into which he might introduce this tool of death. His body sings with the potential to do damage.

Then he starts killing them.

Easier now in this narrow corridor. It’s risky for them to move around him, his Tevinter style markedly more explosive and aggressive than the street-fighting they’re used to. He lets them back him up a little, lighting his way with the savage white glow of his tattoos, and then, once they’ve overcrowded themselves, he rips them apart.

It feels  _good_. Even after they get organized, even after they start taking advantage of the extensions in his strikes. He receives the blows and kills more of them. This is how it’s supposed to be. He’s caged in, he struggles, he fights. And he wins.

A few times, in the crush, he catches sight of the other half of this fatal pincer: Aveline in the fray, while Anders dissuades the deserters. And he’s not sure at first, but in a flash of fire he sees that familiar figure, the usual grace somewhat interrupted by injury or exhaustion. But Hawke is in the battle. Fenris finds he isn’t worried. Aveline is there, and she is more tenacious than anyone he knows in protecting her friends (as he himself discovered last night).

He doesn’t let any of them escape. Because of the business they’re in, and because of what they did to Hawke. And because he has chosen to kill them, and he will carry out that choice. Nothing holds him back now.

At last there are no more to kill. On his end, anyway. He trudges back through the bodies up the corridor, favoring one leg—the aches are starting to reach him now, the sharp burning of cut flesh. More wounds. It doesn’t matter. A small price to pay.

He doesn’t see them at first, then emerges from the corridor to find his three companions at the base of the wall to his left. Hawke is sitting, head tipped back, gasping for breath.

“Hawke—“ Fenris crashes to his knees. Anders is already frowning in concentration, the empyreal moon-white glow of healing magic shimmering under his hands.

Hawke nods, his face tightening for a moment. “Fine. I’m fine. They had a—a mage. Apostate. She healed me. Just—not very well, I think.”

Anders makes a sound of frustration, his magic fading. “I’ll say. We leave you like this, you’ll never fight again. I can fix it, but I have take out what she did first, and then…well, it’ll be complicated. But I  _can_  do it.” He sighs. “Why can’t everyone just be as good as me?”

“Then you wouldn’t be much use anymore, would you?” Fenris remarks.

Anders looks up, ready to snap back, only to be met by Fenris’s wry smile. He blinks in surprise, then shakes his head. “Nonsense. Yes, yes, I can snatch people from the jaws of death and return them to immaculate condition using nothing but my own two hands, but we all know my  _real_  value lies in my cutting wit and irresistible charm.  _Those_  are irreplaceable.”

“You keep telling yourself that, mage.”

“Are you.” Hawke wheezes. “Hurt? Any of you?”

“Mostly bruises.” Aveline stretches experimentally. “Nothing a day’s rest won’t fix.”

“Fenris?”

Hearing Hawke say his name was something he’d taken for granted before. Now, it is an unequaled pleasure. “I…” He looks down at himself, sees the wounds. “…may need more than a day’s rest.”

“I’ll do what I can for you on the way back up,” Anders tells him. “Aveline, do you mind helping Hawke?”

“Not a problem.” She pulls Hawke’s arm around her neck and guides him to his feet.

He clutches his chest, grimacing. “Might be. A bit slow. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Aveline pats him on the back. “We run into trouble, I’ll just sling you over my shoulder and beat a fast retreat.”

Hawke groans. “Oh, Maker. Please don’t do that. I’m sore enough already.”

“Better hope there’s none of them left, then.”

“Listen…thank you. All of you.” He winces, then goes on. “For coming for me. That was. Dangerous.”

Anders laughs, a faintly hysterical sound. (Fenris can understand that—first the weight of Hawke’s death, then the uncertainty of his retrieval, and now suddenly everything is all right. It’s a lot.) “We weren’t going to just not show up. Of course we’d come for you.”

Hawke nods, leaning on Aveline. “I thought. Before they made the arrangements. That I’d never see any of you again.”

His eyes slide over Anders, Aveline. But they stay on Fenris.

Fenris meets his gaze with a strange tremor of fear—what is there to be afraid of? They’ve all made it—and he blinks, looks away.

“Don’t worry.” Aveline shifts, gripping him tighter around the waist. “You’re back with us now. And I, for one, won’t be letting you go again. No matter how hard you try and fight me next time.”

She helps him wade through the bodies. Fenris goes to his greatsword, still lying where he cast it down before the battle. He leans over to pick it up and immediately straightens again, holding his side.  _That_  was painful.

Then he hears Anders muttering, “Maker, that’s heavy.” And finds the mage holding out his sword. “Here. Don’t want you to tear anything else open.”

“Thank you.” Fenris sheathes it once again. Aveline and Hawke are already making their lopsided way down the tunnel. He watches Hawke’s broad back retreating into the semidark. They’re all safe. Hawke will be fine. Nothing bad happened in the interim, except perhaps a few nasty hangovers among their small group.

Fenris follows at limping pace. So why is he so nervous?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Just in case anyone cares, the way I envisioned the whole bad-job-at-healing thing was that the mage, not knowing what she was doing, basically filled in the holes in Hawke’s lungs with big hunks of fibrotic scar tissue that also infiltrated the surrounding parenchyma rather than inducing true regeneration…no? No one cares? Okay that’s reasonable I’ll save that stuff for my exams.


	5. Chapter 5

Aveline leaves them after they enter Hightown, swinging toward the barracks instead. _Somebody’s got to clean up that mess._ She’s not wrong, and Fenris doesn’t envy her for it. It’s a lot of bodies. And a lot of explaining to do. He resolves to visit her later. It’s the very least she deserves.

He’s feeling better by then, but the knee still nags, so Anders is the one who shoulders Hawke, staggering slightly under Hawke’s bulk but pressing on regardless. Fenris trails, the intermittent conversation and laughter fading into the twilight before it reaches him. There’s really no reason for him to be coming along. Anders is the one with the healing, and Hawke will surely need to rest after this.

But he follows them anyway, to the estate.

The dwarf and his savant son are nowhere to be seen. Do they even know their employer is still alive? The corner of Fenris’s mouth quirks up at the thought. Someone will have to go find them. Hawke stops in the hall. “Will I be doing any bleeding during this process?”

Anders hesitates. “Er—yes. Almost definitely. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. Just—let’s use the dining room table. Easier to clean up.” 

Using the marble dining table that must have cost more money than has passed through Fenris’s hands in his entire life as…a sickbed. Very Hawke. Fenris retrieves the table runner hanging over a chair back (another heirloom, intricate lace with what look like real gems sewn in) for use as a pillow. When he turns around he finds Hawke is stripping out of his shirt. Fenris forgets for a moment what he’s doing, but shakes himself and tosses the runner on the table. Catches Anders’s knowing gaze and resolutely looks away, folding his arms. 

The spots where the arrows went in are pale and contracted. Anders heaves a sigh. “Well, this might just be the worst effort I’ve ever seen. I’m afraid this isn’t going to be fun for either of us.”

“That’s all right. Fenris can still have fun. Right, Fenris?” Hawke lies down, tilts his head back and grins. 

“You nearly died. I wouldn’t call that a cause for celebration.” He finds his eyes still drawn to Hawke’s bare chest, damn him, and decides to stare at the floor instead.

“But I didn’t! And that’s something to celebrate, if you ask me.”

Normally that grin is infectious, but it’s not getting to Fenris right now. Still the irrational nervousness, sparking through him and keeping him on edge. Irritated, he tries to quash it, without any measurable success. 

“All right, now lie still and don’t talk. If my concentration breaks, things could go very badly.” Anders lays his hands on Hawke. 

Fenris watches the process, even though he knows it’ll just make him anxious. The scarlike spots begin to erode, welling with blood. Yes. Anxious. Hawke grunts, grasping the edge of the table. Fenris can’t imagine what it’s like, having to lie still while bits of your flesh start dissolving. 

Then discovers he doesn’t have to imagine, just to remember sitting there rigid while Danarius’s fingers, white-hot, gripped his arm and scorched away the layers of skin—

He yanks himself out of the memory with a flinch. This is different. This is healing, not punishment. Still, he recalls easily the terrible aloneness. Just him and the inflicting of pain, no comfort around him, nor any to come after. He watches the strained calm on Hawke’s face, the whitening of his knuckles against the marble edge of the table.

Fenris strips off his gauntlets, comes forward and takes Hawke’s hand in his own. 

The effect is immediate. Hawke relaxes, tension draining out of his muscles. He gives Fenris’s hand a gentle squeeze. Fenris finds the act has calmed him, too. He hooks one foot around the nearest chair and drags it closer, sitting down. 

The process goes on for some time. Blood runs from the wounds in a trickling ooze, catching in Hawke’s chest hair. Anders mutters an occasional expletive. Then flesh starts to rise in the holes, red-pink and shiny, covered by the gradual encroachment of skin. 

At last Anders slumps back, rubbing his eyes. “There. We’re done. Maker, I need a drink. And a nap.”

Hawke probes the healed-over spots experimentally. “I thought you couldn’t get drunk.”

“I can’t,” he moans. “It’s awful.”

Fenris finds his hand is still held captive, so he slips it from Hawke’s grasp and tucks it under his knees so the mage won’t see. 

Anders wobbles to his feet. “All right, I’m going back to the clinic to pass out. Don’t do anything strenuous for the next few days. I mean it, those were some nasty wounds.”

“You can stay tonight if you’re tired. There’s a half-dozen guest rooms in this place.” Hawke sits up. 

Anders pauses, his eyes flicking from Hawke to Fenris and back. Then he shakes his head. “No, it’s all right. But thank you.”

“Well…as long as you’re sure.” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m sure Varric will put together a party at the Hanged Man.” He gives a last wave, then trudges out of the kitchen.

Which leaves Fenris, who has even less reason to be here than he did before. 

Hawke slides off the table. “Oh, Maker, it’s good to be home. I’ve had an awful couple of days.”

Fenris comes around to steady him in case he falls. “Did they…hurt you?”

“Not on purpose.” He laughs, then winces. “Their apostate needed a few tries before she got me stable. Anyway, that wasn’t the worst part of—“ He hesitates, then continues on. “—er, never mind. So, do you want to help get this blood off me?”

Fenris guides him to the washroom, where he wets a cloth and drags it over Hawke’s skin, trying not to notice how the water darkens his chest hair and condenses it into fine curls. It’s already bad enough, the two of them alone, the hour late, Fenris with no reason to be here and Hawke finding an excuse for him to stay a few minutes longer. Hawke’s got an absent smile on his face. Fenris is still nervous. 

With the last flecks of blood gone, Hawke stands, inspecting himself in the mirror. “Well, I _look_ good as new.”

Fenris knows that tone. “No strenuous activity. You heard the mage.”

“Yes, yes. It does still ache like you wouldn’t believe.” He sags. “Maybe I should take it easy for a bit.”

“You’re going to get some rest, Hawke. I’ll make Aveline post a guard outside your door if that’s what it takes.”

“Come on, Fenris, do you think I couldn’t slip _one_ guard?”

A valid point. Fenris sighs. “Please, Hawke. For all our sakes.”

“All right, all right, I’ll be good.”

Fenris helps him up the stairs to his room. Looking around, he realizes he hasn’t been here since—but Hawke is talking. “D’you think it’s possible to sleep for three days straight? Because I sort of want to do that.”

Fenris shrugs and sets him down on the bed. “You can do anything if you set your mind to it.”

“Oh, my mind’s set.” He lies back and pulls the covers up over his stomach. “Maybe four days. Five. A whole week.”

“I’ll give the others your regards at the Hanged Man tomorrow.” Fenris pauses for a moment, then starts to head for the door, ignoring the feeling of something unfulfilled, like a question unanswered, or a puzzle he just can’t quite figure out—

“Fenris? Please don’t leave.”

Fenris stops. And turns.

Hawke is watching him, fists balled in the covers, the need written all over his face— _need?_ From Rowan Hawke? Who has everything under control, who’s never _needed_ anything at all in the entire time Fenris has known him? But then it disappears, closed off behind the usual composure. “I mean—just for a few moments. If you wouldn’t mind.”

Fenris finally teases out the nervousness, finally, unravelling it until he gets to the center, where he finds…nothing. Nothing at all. A reflex. The memory of shame. The fear of failure. He thinks of Aveline, her copper hair bright in the flicker of firelight, telling him he has the whole world in front of him.

“Hawke.”

Hawke closes his eyes. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that of you. Of course you can leave, I don’t—“

“I love you.” Fenris sits on the edge of the bed and kisses him on the mouth. 

Hawke makes a noise of surprise, then kisses Fenris back eagerly, holding his face in both hands.

Fenris has to resist the urge to laugh. How could it be possible for him to be this happy? Even in all those moments at the Hanged Man that had him laughing harder than he ever had before, even during those lazy afternoons sharing a bottle of wine with Hawke in front of the fireplace, there was always something eating at him. The uncertainty. The failure. No longer. This is certain. And this time he will not fail. 

Hawke breaks away. “I love you too. Oh, Maker, I’ve been waiting a _long_ time to say that.”

“I’ve grown tired of waiting.” Fenris rises, strips off his breastplate, then peels his shirt off over his head. 

Hawke watches him in total defeat. “Much as I would— _love_ to repeat our last night together, I think doing that right now might actually kill me.” 

Fenris lets out a startled laugh. “No, that wasn’t what I had in mind. At the moment, anyway. I just…” He lifts the covers and slides himself beneath them, laying his head on Hawke’s chest. “…missed this.”

It’s exactly as he remembered. Hawke is warm and solid, his heartbeat thudding steady and strong. His powerful arms circle around Fenris, one calloused palm rubbing his back. “So did I.”

At the contact, Fenris lets out an involuntary noise of contentment, earning a chuckle from Hawke. “What was that?”

Fenris smiles into Hawke’s shoulder. “No one’s…touched me like this. Or at all, really. Since you. It feels…nice.”

“I was afraid—“ Hawke hesitates. “—we’d never get to do this again. That was the worst part. When they had me and I thought I was going to die, I thought of you, you know. To lend me some—“

Fenris snorts. “Strength? I have to admit my strength in your absence was somewhat lacking.” Especially compared to Hawke, whose fortitude surpasses anyone else Fenris has ever met—

“I was going to say hope.” Hawke kisses his hair. “We’ve been edging around it for so long, and I never wanted to push you, but I knew—we could do it. With the right timing, maybe, or in the right circumstances. Although apparently those circumstances were me dying, which isn’t quite ideal—“

“It wasn’t that,” Fenris interjects. “You could have come back from the dead and I’d still go hide in my house rather than stay with you here, if it weren’t for Aveline. She spoke with me. It was…an illuminating conversation.”

“She did? What did you talk about?”

Fenris is quiet for a moment. How does he explain this? “She…convinced me to stop spending all my time sitting alone in the mansion.”

Hawke snorts. “Well, that’s good. You know I love visiting you, but every time I leave I’m hacking up lungfuls of dust—“

“I’m afraid she didn’t convince me to start dusting.”

Hawke groans, his chest vibrating beneath Fenris. “Fine. I’ll just suffer in silence.”

Fenris kisses Hawke’s shoulder, savoring the sensation of calloused palms rubbing over his back. He strokes Hawke’s stomach, fingers curling in the fine, dark hair. 

“Fenris? Will you—still be here in the morning?”

“Without question.” He finds he’s excited for it. Excited for everything that comes after this. 

“Good. Because I want to spend time with you but I’m about to fall asleep.”

“No need to fear. Nothing short of another Qunari uprising could persuade me to remove myself.”

“One more thing—d’you think you could come here for a second?”

Fenris shifts, props himself up on his elbow. Hawke leans up and kisses him again, then grins. “All right. That was all I wanted.”

Fenris settles again as he was before and closes his eyes, falling asleep to Hawke softly stroking the back of his neck.

——

The sun wakes him.

Smeared over his eyes, splashed on the floor. He squints against the bright light, raising a hand to cover his face. It’s only then he senses the broad body at his back, skin hot, and the heavy arm draped over him. Must be one of Danarius’s friends. He swallows the revulsion creeping up from his gut and tries to crawl away, carefully, not wanting to disturb the man, just to escape without being compelled to do anything more—

“Mm? Fenris?

Fenris freezes, his eyes widening—

—and it all comes back. Where he is, what he did last night ( _last night_ —the thought makes him giddy) and who’s lying behind him, legs tangled in his. He flips over and kisses Hawke on the mouth, once, twice, three times—

“No, you can’t kiss me,” Hawke mumbles. “I have morning breath.”

Fenris kisses him again.

They doze for a little while longer (Fenris rises briefly to close the curtain, then returns to bed, wriggling back until he fits in the curve of Hawke’s body), until there’s a timid knocking at the bedroom door.

Hawke groans. “Coming.” 

Someone inside the estate? Fenris rolls onto his back as Hawke staggers out of bed and cracks the door open just a few inches.

“Master Hawke!”

Ah, yes. The dwarf steward. Hidden from sight, Fenris plants his feet on the floor and stands, stretching.

“Good morning, Bodahn. I am, in fact, alive, in case you’d heard any different.”

“My lord, let me just say I am _overjoyed_ to see you standing in front of me again—“

“Yes, I must say I’m quite overjoyed to be here myself.” The tail end of his sentence is distorted by an enormous yawn.

“Have you sustained injury? Perhaps I could call for a healer?”

“Oh, no, that’s been taken care of, no need to worry.”

“Splendid. Perhaps just some breakfast, then?”

“That sounds lovely. Although—er, you see, Fenris stayed the night, since we got back so late, and, you know, Hightown is dangerous after dark, so I didn’t want to send him home alone…”

“I understand _completely_ , my lord. Breakfast for two, then.”

“Yes, that would be perfect. We’ll be—“ Hawke pulls his head out of the crack in the door and glances over toward the bed. His eyes widen.

Fenris tosses his underclothes on top of his trousers, which lie crumpled on the carpet. He puts his hands on his hips.

Hawke sticks his head back out the door. “Er, we may be a short while. Fenris is…very tired. Long, difficult battle last night. Very…er, taxing.”

“Not a problem, my lord. I’ll keep the food warm for you.” 

“Excellent. Thank you.” He shuts the door, turns, and leans back against it. For a moment he gazes at Fenris helplessly. Then: “Please try not to kill me.”

Fenris gives him a sly smile. “I’ll be gentle.”

——

They do make it to the Hanged Man that evening. There’s a curtain hanging at the top of the stairs, sectioning off the entire back half of the tavern, and Isabela’s guffawing floats out from beyond. Fenris trails behind Hawke up the stairs, wondering how they’re going to tell the others, or _if_ they are, when Hawke grabs his hand and pulls him through the curtain. 

They’re met with a veritable barrage of cheering. Isabela’s the first one to notice—“Look at that, everyone, they’re holding hands! They’re finally fucking!” Followed by an exasperated Aveline: “Oh, thank the Maker, it took you long enough.”  Then Varric’s shoving mugs of ale at them. “Here, let’s get you two started.”

Isabela assaults them with questions. Hawke tries to deflect but somehow ends up giving her answers anyway. Fenris thinks he catches Varric taking notes a couple of times and prays he won’t find any obscene leaflets emblazoned with “The Wolf and the Hawk” scattered around the Kirkwall streets. To head it off he suggests a game of Wicked Grace. He hasn’t brought any money but Hawke’s there, which is effectively the same thing.

Sometime during the evening, after he folds another useless hand, he discovers he’s ended up next to Anders. The mage flicks his eyes up, takes a sip of ale. “Break his heart and I’ll break your nose.”

Fenris nods. “Understood.”

He keeps wondering when it’s going to fracture, when he’s going to find something wrong. But it never happens—not that night, at least. He even wins a few hands (which doesn’t lift him out of the negatives, but the rush of victory is good enough). Hawke gets drunker and spends more time draped over Fenris in an affectionate sort of embrace rather than looking at his cards.

At one point, as Aveline’s tossing coins into the center of the table, he catches her eye. Her cheeks are ale-flushed to match her disheveled hair, and she gives him an approving nod and a grin. 

_You’ve got the whole world in front of you._

Hawke snores quietly on Fenris’s shoulder. Fenris smiles at his hopeless hand. He really does.


End file.
